


The General

by wheel_pen



Series: Miscellaneous House MD Stories [4]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, warriors - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3226409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate universe, House is the Queen’s eccentric general, Wilson is his very personal assistant, and Cameron, Chase, and Foreman are his long-suffering warrior subordinates. Brief snippets, unfinished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The General

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. I hope you enjoy this story. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

            House narrowed his crystal blue eyes. He was not amused.

            “Wilson!”

            A head poked around the open doorway at his irritable shout. “Yes?”

            “There’s _something_ in my room,” House told him, contempt mingled with suspicion.

            Wilson looked around his commander’s shoulder, walking farther into the room. “It looks like a girl.”

            House rolled his eyes. “Of _course_ it’s a girl.” He pointed at her huddled form briefly with his cane, leaning on one of the posters of the bed. “I _know_ it’s a girl. What I want to know is, what is she doing in my room?”

            Wilson thought back. “Oh yeah,” he remembered after a moment. “The boys brought her up. Thought you might like her.” He started to leave.

            “I don’t want the boys’ leftovers,” House insisted snidely, preventing the younger man from exiting to bed. “Although I’m surprised she’s still alive, if the boys got to her first...” He glanced back at the figure obscured by unnecessary piles of fabric, curled near the fire by a chair. He was also surprised there wasn’t at least a puddle of blood pooling away from her.

            “Oh, I don’t think they did anything to her,” Wilson replied, rubbing the back of his neck the way he did when he was tired and didn’t want to be where he was.

            “What’s wrong with her then?” House took another limping step closer. In another minute he’d be poking her with his cane.

            Wilson shrugged, then realized his commander couldn’t see it. “Nothing, I’m sure. Something about finding her in the temple they sacked, and she would be a nice present for you...”

            “Oh, how thoughtful of them,” House shot back dryly. “I’m glad we recruited such a caring, considerate bunch of marauders.”

            “Maybe she’s, like, a priestess or something,” Wilson suggested half-heartedly. He leaned against the bed, trying to stay upright, and suppressed a yawn so hard it hurt. “Something special.”

            “They’re just superstitious idiots,” House decided. Yep, there he went, tapping at the girl’s legs with his cane. She looked up through a tangle of dark hair, then quickly back down. “Trying to bring the wrath of the gods down on me, for dishonoring one of their servants.” He poked the girl harder and she scooted away a bit.

            “I thought you didn’t believe in the gods,” Wilson pointed out, sinking farther back against the bed.

            “I don’t,” House assured him. “But I’m sure the generous givers of this gift do. Come on, get up.” Wilson straightened until he realized House was talking to the girl. She curled into a tighter ball. “Get up!”

            “She probably doesn’t understand you,” he tried, this time failing to stop the yawn.

            House sighed in exasperation, as if a slave who didn’t speak his language were just _one more thing_ he had to deal with on a busy day. “We’re not discussing philosophy,” he snapped, reaching down to jerk on the girl’s arm. He didn’t really have the leverage to haul her up, but hopefully she wouldn’t realize that. “She understands me.” Slowly the girl got to her feet, the voluminous remains of what was once an ornate temple robe draping around her. House glanced triumphantly over his shoulder at Wilson. “See? Communication across a language barrier achieved through universal body signals. Unmistakable.”

            Suddenly the girl slapped House across the face and spat a string of imperious but unintelligible words, leaving him more startled than hurt, and Wilson snorted in spite of himself. “And what message was she trying to send with _that_?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

            House glared at him for a moment, then turned back to the girl and promptly smacked her. “House!” Wilson admonished him. “You’re twice her size.”

            “I’m _old_ , and a cripple,” the general pointed out snidely, as the girl dropped into a chair, her thin shoulders starting to shake.

            “You see?” Wilson pointed out accusingly. “You made her cry.”

            “For the love of—“ House’s expression clearly asked the heavens why he was saddled with such a follower. “She hit me first!”

            “She’s had a rough day,” the younger man reminded him, finally pushing himself off the bed. He was becoming far too comfortable there. He wandered around to the chair the girl was hunched in. “Can’t you just give her a blanket and let her go to sleep on the floor or something?”

            “No,” House replied crossly, and Wilson knew he was just being contrary now. “I want to see what she looks like.”

            His tone and body language indicated he wanted Wilson to perform the physical contact, so the younger man sighed and crouched down beside the chair. “Okay, honey,” he began in what he hoped was a friendly but firm tone. “Come on, let’s just...” He started pushing tangled chunks of her long hair back from her face until finally, sniffling, she started to help. He smiled encouragingly at the face that emerged, even though he could sense House glowering at him for it. “There you go,” he told her cheerfully. “She’s very pretty,” he assured the older man.

            House snorted and grabbed her chin roughly, forcing her to twist in the chair and face him. Wilson sighed and stood, leaning against the furniture. “D—n,” House breathed, staring down at the big, wet, blue-green eyes that met his unwaveringly. Her features were delicate, except for a nose that didn’t quite fit in with everything else, and her skin was pale, no doubt from years of dedication inside the temple. Wilson really hoped his commander would be taken with her so he could go to bed. “She’s d—n _young_ ,” he continued after a moment, letting the girl go and backing up a bit. “Did the boys think I was a pedophile or something?”

            “She’s not _that_ young,” Wilson protested. “She’s... eighteen or so, I bet.”

            “Oh, eighteen,” House replied sarcastically. “So not young at all.”

            “What, you want old ladies now?” Wilson countered. “Why the h—l are you protesting nubile teenage girls being left in your room?” _And can I go to bed now?_

            “We don’t _know_ that she’s nubile,” House told him obnoxiously. Now _he_ was leaning on the bed. “Strip her.”

            Wilson closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and turned patiently back to the girl. Sleep could be a long time in coming, he decided. “Um, would you mind...?” He tugged slightly on the girl’s dress.

            “Good gods, Wilson,” House mocked, “don’t _ask_ her if she wants to strip.” He reached out with his cane, handle first, and snagged the sagging neckline of her dress, starting to jerk it down. Gasping, the girl grabbed at the fabric and yanked it away, scrambling backwards out of the chair and his reach.

            Wilson stepped between her and the blazing fire before she could tumble into it. “Careful there!” House raised an eyebrow at him, clearly saying, ‘Well, get _on_ with it!’ and Wilson gently pulled at the dress again. “If we could just maybe remove this outer part here...” he suggested diplomatically, sliding the excess material down her arm. Watching him warily, the girl allowed it, until the dress was piled at her feet and she stood before them in only a thin, sleeveless shift that was as good as transparent when backlit by the fire. House motioned for Wilson to step away so he wouldn’t create a shadow, then gestured for the girl to turn around.

            “What do you know, she _is_ nubile,” he decided, raking her slowly from top to bottom and back again. “Good call.” Wilson knew he couldn’t just leave it at that. “Kind of skinny,” House continued, although his gaze said that wasn’t a complaint. “All eyes and legs. Hmmm.” He thought for a moment, or ogled, Wilson wasn’t sure which, then finally stood up decisively. “Alright, I’ll keep her.” As if that was ever in doubt.

            “Okay,” sighed Wilson. “Can I go to bed now?”

            “Sure,” the older man told him. “Just don’t hog the covers.”

            Wilson gazed at him suspiciously. “You want me to sleep here?”

            “You gotta hot date somewhere else?” House snapped, already turning the blankets back.

            Wilson rubbed the back of his neck again. “Well, no...” he admitted. “But I’m really tired...”

            “So am I,” House agreed. “It’s like I fought a battle today or something,” he added sarcastically. “Get in bed.”

            Wilson didn’t have the energy to protest and just hoped his commander would indeed let him sleep for a while. He yanked back the pile of blankets on the other side of the bed and plopped down on the mattress, kicking his boots off. “You want me to—“

            “Hey, girl!” House snapped his fingers as he sat down on the edge of the bed, and the girl gathered her dress back up around her and approached him, staying a cane-length away. “Take my boots off.” He tapped them meaningfully.

            “Is she doing it?” Wilson asked after a moment, pausing in his own preparations.

            “Of course,” came the smug answer, followed by a sharp, “Ow! Watch it, girl!”

            “She’s probably got a name, you know,” Wilson suggested sleepily, lying down on his side facing House.

            “Wow, you’re sharp when you’re about to pass out,” the older man assured him. “You!” He thrust his cane at the girl who was arranging his boots beside the bed, then tapped his own chest with it lightly. “House.” He jabbed Wilson’s legs with the wooden implement. “Wilson.” Then he pointed his cane at her again with an expectant expression. Wilson propped himself up on one elbow, leaning around House to look at the girl. She was giving House a very appraising look, as if deciding whether he was worthy of such information, and he didn’t have much patience for that kind of thing. “Your name!” he demanded acidly. “House, Wilson, you!”

            “Melinda,” she finally said, with great dignity, rising to her feet. House gave Wilson a look that suggested he thought the name was rather fancy for a slave girl. Wilson frankly didn’t care and dropped his head to the pillow.

            Melinda gathered up the tattered remains of her dress and marched over to the fire, preparing to lie down before it. “At least give her a blanket,” Wilson mumbled, nudging House as he felt the older man settle into bed beside him. “She’ll freeze to death.”

            “Melinda!” House called sharply after a moment, making Wilson jump. “Come here. Get in bed.”

            Wilson opened his eyes and decided the girl’s wide-eyed expression probably mirrored his own. “Um, House, I really did want to get some _sleep_ before morning—“ he began dubiously.

            “She’s sleeping on _your_ side,” House told him, turning his back to Wilson and yanking a large share of the covers on top of himself.

            Wilson scrabbled at the blankets to make sure he got some and patted the mattress beside him wearily. The bed was huge, the night was cold, they were all exhausted, and in a few seconds he would be asleep, not really caring whether the girl had taken up his offer or not. Just before he drifted off, though, he felt the mattress on the other side of him dip, followed by a draft of cold air, then a tugging on the blankets. “Quit squirming!” House snapped, rolling away with his blankets even more, and the other two followed him, chasing the warmth. A moment later, all three were still.

 **

            The castle they were camped in was, frankly, rather medieval, with thick stone walls that seemed to do little to keep out the cold but rather invited it in as piercing drafts, while allowing the heat from the fireplaces to sneak out with only the smoke left behind as a telltale sign that a fire had even been attempted. Add in the lack of modern amenities and the overcrowded conditions, and—

            “It’s only a matter of time before disease starts running rampant,” Chase was telling them over lunch in the noisy, bustling main hall, his voice getting that little bit of a whine that signaled he was becoming obsessed with something. “Dysentery, typhoid, smallpox—“

            “Well, I can see you lost all your beauty sleep last night brooding over this,” House observed meanly, cutting into his steak, “but unless you have a major remodeling plan that includes bathrooms and a general’s suite, you’re just going to have to rough it.” He popped a chunk of meat into his mouth. “Why, even we had to sleep three to a bed last night,” House added, turning to Wilson indiscreetly. The younger man rolled his eyes, refusing to be embarrassed.

            “You don’t normally do that?” asked Foreman dryly, pulling off a chunk of bread.

            “Mercifully, no,” Wilson assured him, before House could shoot back another glib remark. “I nearly froze to death as it was, because _someone_ is not very good at sharing things like _blankets_.”

            “Must’ve missed that lesson in kindergarten,” House replied smugly, stealing a piece of potato off Wilson’s plate.

            “Poor sanitary conditions can also lead to food poisoning,” Chase added, looking pointedly at House’s meal. The older man defiantly gulped down another piece of steak.

            Foreman was about to make a comment when he was bumped from behind by someone passing between the tables and he rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Sanitary or not, it’s impossible to get anything done packed in here like sheep,” he grumbled, dipping his bread in the remains of his meal. “I slept three to a bed last night, too, and I _don’t_ normally do that.”

            “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with you,” suggested House innocently.

            Foreman ignored the remark. “And there were _ten_ people in the room. Not a wink of sleep all night long.” Another bump from behind caused him to drop his bread into his soup, splashing it around the bowl.

            “You just have to be more creative,” Cameron told him, stabbing viciously at her potatoes with her fork. “Some of the women and I went up to the belltower to sleep. It was perfectly quiet.”

            Chase stared at her. “And... _freezing_ ,” he added, more as a question. “With all the open windows?”

            “We boarded them up,” Cameron shrugged. “And we’re, you know, _warriors_ , not princes,” she continued, a bit sharply.

            Chase gave her a look to suggest his disapproval of the comment. “I thought you would’ve been the third, in the bed,” he shot back, nodding at House and Wilson.

            This time Cameron gave the threatening look but didn’t get a chance to reply before House announced gleefully, “Nope. New toy. Some kind of temple priestess. Very nubile.”

            Cameron rolled her eyes and was about to query further when Foreman was nudged yet again, and this time he felt wetness splash against the back of his neck and collar as someone spilled their food or drink on him. “That’s it,” he snapped menacingly, smacking his palms on the table top as he stood up, whirled around, and snagged the oblivious person passing him by the tunic, slamming the heavy-set soldier down on the table. Noises of protest rose up from his comrades as their meals were jostled or shoved aside. “You... watch... where... you’re... _going_!” Foreman told the man in his grasp, punctuating his suggestion with additional poundings on the tabletop, before flinging him aside and sitting back down.

            The spooked foot soldier skittered off, looking back nervously. “Savage African rage,” House called after him, by way of explanation. “It’s primal. Can’t do anything about it. Ooh, he had pie.” He reached out and scooped up the only slightly dented pastry the man had abandoned on the table during his escape. “Yummy.” Foreman just sighed and tried to wipe whatever the man had spilled on him off his neck and clothes.

            “One of the boys said something about a mansion about half a mile down the road,” Wilson commented, gauging the flavor of the pie House gathered up protectively from the bleeding filling. “If it’s empty, it’s probably been looted, but maybe we could stay there.” Cherry, he thought. He liked cherry.

            House shrugged, seeing the interested looks Foreman and Chase gave this news. “Check it out...” he decided, breaking off a chunk of his dessert. “...Cameron.”

            The woman sighed. “Why do _I_ have to do it?” she asked tartly. “I’m fine here.”

            “Obviously, because you’re the girl,” House told her snidely. “You and your little band of warrior maids can get there first and clean it up for us. Dust things. Perhaps bake.”

            Cameron opened her mouth to retort when there was a crash from the other end of the room, even louder than usual, and they all glanced back to see a girl holding the remains of a chair over the staggering form of the soldier who had no doubt decided she was going to be on his personal menu. “D—n,” muttered House, displeased. He glared at Wilson. “What’s she doing down here? Didn’t you tell her to stay in the room?”

            “She doesn’t speak our language,” Wilson reminded him, with a low level of indignation. He watched with concern as the soldier’s pals rallied around him and narrowed their eyes at the teenager. “Um, someone should really go get her—“

            “Good idea,” House agreed. Wilson started to stand, but his commander stopped him. “You’re up, Your Highness,” he decided, nodding at Chase, who gave him a wide-eyed ‘who me?’ look. “Go rescue the damsel in distress. Isn’t that what you people do?”

            “Well—fine,” Chase sputtered, jumping to his feet. “I’ll just—go get her.”

            House twisted around in his chair to watch the blond thread his way quickly through the crowd. “This is gonna be hilarious,” he told the others eagerly. Although they couldn’t hear exactly what was being said clear across the room, the conversation was easily interpreted through body language. And through House’s expert mimicry of Chase’s unusual accent. “’Please, Mr. Soldier, don’t hurt the little girl, she’s almost as pretty as me,’” he narrated, as Chase made conciliatory gestures towards the soldiers, Melinda watching them all warily. “’Out of the way, kid,’” House went on, in a deeper voice representing Chase’s opponents, who loomed over him threateningly. “’Our man-meat hasn’t been fed for the day—the girl’s first, and you’re next.’”

            “Man-meat?” Cameron mouthed disbelievingly at Foreman, who shrugged helplessly.

            “’You’re gonna be so embarrassed to have your a—es handed to you on a plate by a pretty boy,’” House continued, back in Chase’s voice as the blond warned them again. The older man made a deep and stupid laughing sound that no doubt exactly matched those emanating from the four men Chase faced. “’Ha ha ha—you think _you_ can take _us_ , funny-sounding sissy-boy?’ And then...” The four soldiers glanced at each other, then charged Chase—who in less than thirty seconds, in a blur of weapon-free motion, had each of them crumpled senselessly on the ground or groaning from an awkward position across now-broken furniture. “...he kicks their a-s!” House finished triumphantly. “Gods, look at that, not a hair out of place,” he added, gaze narrowing thoughtfully as Chase headed back to them, Melinda in tow.

            “Well, I guess we know who’ll be the third one in bed tonight,” Wilson commented with a smirk, snagging a bite of the cherry pie.

            “Oh, don’t be jealous, Jimmy,” House told him obnoxiously. “You can sleep with Foreman instead.”

            “Yeah,” Foreman commented, with deep sarcasm. “Only if you sleep _quietly_.”

            “Well, here she is,” Chase announced proudly, drawing the girl up to the table. Clearly he expected kudos for his deed of valor.

            “Nice job, man,” Foreman told him coolly.

            “Very impressive,” Wilson allowed, indicating to Melinda she should sit down on the bench between him and House.

            “Did you really have to be that vicious?” Cameron protested, glancing back at the men who were just now staggering to their feet. “That guy’s hand looks like it’s broken. He won’t be able to hold a sword for weeks.”

            “Well, I _am_ a _warrior_ ,” Chase informed her arrogantly, settling back down in his place. “Sometimes I just don’t know my own strength.”

            There were several snorts at this. “Lacked finesse, as usual,” House critiqued. “We can work on that later, honey.”

            Chase made a different kind of whining noise—he seemed to have a broad range of them. “Tonight? I met this girl from the kitchens earlier, and—“ House gave him an expectant look, as if daring his subordinate to come up with a better plan. “—and I guess she’ll still be there tomorrow night,” he finished with a defeated sigh.

            “You don’t want kitchen girls anyway,” House informed him, smug with his victory. “Unsanitary, you know. _What_ do you want?” he snapped suddenly at Melinda, who was tugging on his arm. She answered with words he didn’t understand and pointed in Foreman’s general direction. “No, no, you don’t have to fear the dark one,” he assured her patronizingly. Foreman just sighed. “At least, don’t look him in the eye, or he’ll steal your soul, but other than that...”

            “I think she’s hungry,” Wilson decided, more reasonably, looking at the almost full bowl of soup in front of Foreman. “Are you going to eat that?”

            He shook his head and scooted the bowl over to the girl along with his spoon, and she immediately started wolfing it down. “Gods, slow down, you’ll choke to death,” House admonished sharply. “And choking to death on second-hand cold soup is a pretty lame way to die. Not _quite_ as bad as being defeated in battle by a fluffy-haired wombat...” Chase glared. “Anyway, why is she so hungry?” House went on, trying to figure out how she’d managed to tie the shapeless robe up into a semblance of a dress. “Didn’t you feed her breakfast?”

            Wilson looked at him in surprise. “No.”

            House frowned. “I told you to feed her!”

            “No, you didn’t,” the younger man countered innocently.

            “Yes, I did!” House shot back, irritated.

            “When?”

            “This morning, when I got up.”

            “Ah,” Wilson nodded in understanding. “This morning, when you got up, when I was asleep.”

            “You were talking!” House protested. “You answered in the affirmative.”

            “Reflex,” Wilson shrugged.

            House muttered rude things under his breath. “Foreman, go get her something else to eat.”

            “Why do _I_ have to go?” the younger man protested. “I already gave her my food.”

            “Because Cameron is about to leave to scout out the nice mansion we might get to live in,” House informed him condescendingly, “and Chase has already exerted himself today. I don’t want him too tired for tonight.” Eye-rolling ensued. “And Wilson—“ House thought a moment. “Wilson would be happy to do it. Therefore, it’s you.”

            “And that’s the kind of logic that wins us battles,” Wilson commented dryly.

 **

            “All hail King Cuddy,” House muttered under his breath, leaning both hands on his cane as he and Wilson waited at the end of a line of sycophants fawning over their richly-dressed queen, who had set herself up in a good-sized chamber of the castle and was currently receiving reports and praise from her various generals and advisers. “If it weren’t for the fact that I have _first-hand knowledge_ ,” he added, in a voice just loud enough to be heard by those immediately around them, “I’d suspect she really _was_ a queen, of a different sort, that is.”

            Wilson rolled his eyes and tried to make his smile to the disgusted officers nearby convey that if they thought House was bad in small doses, they should try being around him all the time. Melinda sighed loudly and shifted position to lean against one of the stone columns, obviously getting tired of the wait for whatever was going to happen that she didn’t understand.

            “Shut up!” House snapped at her meanly, and she glared back.

            “She didn’t say anything,” Wilson pointed out, just to make things difficult.

            “She was _thinking_ something obnoxious, I could tell,” his commander insisted.

            “And we all know _you_ have the monopoly on obnoxiousness,” the younger man observed.

            “Exactly,” House agreed quickly, and Wilson could tell he was going to try and pass the time by working this up into an elaborate theory. “She’s cutting into my territory. The value of my obnoxiousness will plummet because the market will be oversaturated—“

            “House!” Both men jumped slightly as the Queen looked past the line of functionaries and hangers-on and narrowed her dark eyes at them. Glancing at each other as if debating who was more at fault for the trouble they were surely in, the two men stepped forward slightly and bowed, Wilson deeper than House, towards the commanding woman.

            The Queen settled back into her makeshift throne—a chair propped on some wooden pallets that rocked precipitously when she moved too quickly—and adjusted her fur wrap for a moment, making them wait in the spotlight. House sighed and rolled his eyes and was on the point of being phenomenally rude to his commander-in-chief, despite Wilson kicking his ankle, when she turned her steely gaze back to them. “Excellent job with the battle, General House,” she allowed, her voice showing every reluctance she felt at handing out the praise.

            “Oh, no, Your Majesty,” House countered, in a tone that might be mistaken for obsequiousness if one didn’t know him better. “All the credit should go to _you_ , for picking a fight with an enemy too incompetent to know their cannon from their a-sses.”

            The Queen’s expression turned from “Gods, is House giving me a _compliment_?” to “I should’ve known better, of course not” to “Wait, I’m not completely certain” in the space of his sentence, and she clearly decided that at least in front of everyone else, it would be best to take the comment at face value. “Well, thank you, General,” she replied, sputtering only a bit. Gathering her authority back up, the Queen continued, more royally, “I understand you wish to take as a prize of battle a house located down the road.”

            “Yes, nice little cottage,” House agreed, “three bedrooms, four baths, and a mostly-functional grand piano. Of course I wasn’t certain I wanted it once Cameron described the exact shade of aubergine of the carpets—that color always makes me look a little flushed—but with the price of real estate these days, I didn’t want to be too picky.”

            Wilson took a breath and tried to look supportive and embarrassed at the same time, which was a tricky thing to do but he’d had a lot of practice. House merely blinked blandly at the Queen, as if he weren’t surrounded by courtiers who regarded him as eccentric and mildly disturbing. The Queen pursed her lips and decided it wasn’t a good time to pick a fight.

            “Well,” she allowed after a moment, “although it will be a great loss not having you so nearby to consult with—“

            “Oh, I can give the place to someone else,” House assured her immediately. “I mean, I don’t mind sleeping three to a bed, as long as Wilson doesn’t snore.” Wilson ratcheted the ‘supportive’ down and the ‘embarrassment’ up on his expression.

            “Oh no,” the Queen insisted quickly. “I wouldn’t dream of denying you this well-earned reward. Please, take your troupe there at your earliest, and I mean _earliest_ , convenience.”

            “Your Majesty is far too gracious,” House replied with such utter insincerity that it almost circled back around to being sincere. Almost. Sensing dismissal, House and Wilson started to step back into the crowd of courtiers.

            “General House,” the Queen added, stopping them in their tracks. House met her gaze with surprise, which turned to suspicion when he saw a trace of smugness in her expression. “I understand that you acquired another prize of battle, one which might be useful to us.”

            “Well, I _did_ get the severed head of their top general,” House allowed brightly. “I was going to take it home to the kiddies, but I guess if you’re running out of centerpieces...” Wilson sighed and wondered if he could be individually excused. Sometimes standing up with House was just not worth the resulting avoidance by other people.

            The Queen struggled to look as though he didn’t sound like an utter lunatic. “I was told you had taken as hostage a temple priestess,” she clarified. “Most likely she was the daughter of a noble house, which might pay dearly for her safe return.”

            “Who, Melinda?” House asked, genuinely taken aback. He recovered quickly, though, and Wilson could see from the look in his eye he had no intention of turning the girl over to the Queen. “Sorry, Your Majesty, you should probably execute whoever gave you that faulty information. Melinda’s really more of a... barmaid than a temple priestess.”

            “Really.” The Queen’s tone indicated she did not quite believe him. “She appears to be wearing a temple robe.”

            House looked around quickly and found that Melinda had crept up just behind his left shoulder, no doubt attracted by the sound of her name. He glared at her until she skittered away from him to Wilson. “Barmaid, at the temple,” House assured the Queen. “They have to bring in extra help on festival days, you know. Besides,” he added, when he saw the Queen was not quite falling for this story, “don’t those noble families generally only want their daughters back if they haven’t been... oh, what’s a delicate way to put this... f----d?” There were audible gasps from the surrounding courtiers and Wilson closed his eyes painfully for a moment. The Queen appeared more peeved than shocked, however. “Just trying to be accurate, Your Majesty,” House continued innocently.

            “You’re saying the girl has been...” The Queen hesitated and House watched her expectantly. “...dishonored?”

            “Well, if that’s what _you_ want to call it,” House allowed dubiously, and Wilson sensed bad things were to come. “Back home we would call what she was getting up to last night with Wilson, Foreman, and Chase a Double Backwards—“

            “Alright,” the Queen interrupted, holding up a freshly manicured hand as Wilson fervently hoped he might sink through the floor to the rooms below. “Keep the girl, keep the house. Enjoy them both. We’ll know where to send the ransom demands.”

            “Your Majesty is too, _too_ generous.”

            “You may go, General House,” the Queen finally decided, and Wilson at least wasted no time bowing and backing away, Melinda in tow, trying to look as though he hadn’t noticed the slightly contemptuous stares of the crowd around them. House bowed grandly, with a flourish, and swept towards the door with the maximum amount of pomp, glaring back at anyone who dared make eye contact with him.

 **

            The first time Wilson had met House they had both been much younger. Although oddly enough, Wilson had not been less idealistic, and House had not been less arrogant. Perhaps one trait had always balanced out the other.

            Wilson had heard of House before he met him—everybody had, the brilliant young officer as famous for his strategy as for his ego and sharp wit. He'd already insulted half the guests at the castle, not to mention the servants, and he'd only been there two days. At least that was the rumor flying about the kitchens whenever Wilson went down there—Lord Rudolf had kept him so busy during their stay he hadn't had time to even _see_ any of the other distinguished guests.

            Not that his master had believed that after the stoic bailiff of the castle appeared in their chambers and said Captain House had requested Wilson's presence immediately. It was the sort of request that wasn't a request at all, really, but instead of sending Wilson off right away Lord Rudolf had turned a suspicious gaze upon him and demanded, "And just how does the great Captain House know about _you_ , boy? You've been currying favors behind my back, haven't you! Not satisfied with your place here, are you! Ungrateful—" Of course Wilson had made respectful protests; but when the decidedly non-confrontational bailiff had led him to Captain House's suite a few minutes later, Wilson was sporting the beginnings of a black eye. Another one.

            "You're late," a crisp voice pointed out, and Wilson looked to the fireplace, where a long, lean figure stood silhouetted in the flickering flames. Endless legs, like a racehorse, in trousers just tight enough to attract a buzz of attention, close-cut military jacket perfectly tailored, and blue, blue eyes that narrowed upon Wilson with a gaze that could've cut right through him.

            "You're supposed to be one of the best attachés in the service," Captain House went on, prowling closer to Wilson. "But you don't look like much, do you?" The insult Wilson had heard before, in one form or another; he was cursed with a baby face that people always underestimated. It was the compliment that surprised him.

            House was looking at him expectantly. "I'm sorry, sir," Wilson replied evenly, "for being late."

            House rolled his eyes. "Excellent introduction," he commented sarcastically, throwing himself down in a chair before the fire. "Shows a lot of spirit and personality."

            Wilson blinked at him. "Sir?" His strategy had always been to remain calm in the face of some of the high-strung officers he'd worked for.

            House seemed thoroughly disappointed by this point. "Fine, fine," he grumbled reluctantly, more to himself than Wilson. "You're highly recommended, I'll give you another chance. So get down on your knees and show me what you can do."

            Wilson was not shocked by this comment either; he had heard requests and commands like it since before he'd begun working with powerful men who liked having their egos—as well as other things—stroked. But Captain House's behavior was still rather bold, considering Wilson was still in the service of Lord Rudolf.

            Wilson had hesitated a moment too long. "Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?" Captain House asked acidly.

            "No, sir," Wilson assured him. "I was just wondering what my current master would say to this."

            "Your current master," House shot back derisively, "obviously places little value on your talents, however meager they may be. Otherwise your eye wouldn't be swelling shut right now." House narrowed his piercing blue gaze on the younger man. "So either get down, or get out."

            Wilson got down. He didn't mind having the opportunity, both because of House's celebrity and those long, long legs and blue, blue eyes. Besides, if he was going to be further beaten by his master when he returned to their chambers, he figured he might at least have done something to be beaten _for_.

            Dawn was breaking when Wilson slipped back into the chambers he'd shared with Lord Rudolf. He was trying to be quiet, but the older man sat up instantly the moment he entered the room—warrior's training. "Where the h—l have you been?" he snapped peevishly.

            Wilson headed towards the foot of the bed, staggering slightly and holding on to a bedpost for support. He hadn't slept all night, as Captain House had decided to make an extremely _thorough_ investigation of the young attaché's skills, in one department at least. "I was with Captain House," he replied quietly, reaching for a jacket and small knapsack lying atop a trunk. "I just came back to get my things."

            "Your _what_?" Lord Rudolf protested, swinging himself out of bed. Some people, Wilson thought to himself for not the first time, really shouldn't sleep in the nude. Wilson turned with great effort and aimed himself for the door again. "Where do you think you're going?"

            "I work for Captain House now," Wilson answered, hoping that through sheer force of will he could prevent his former master from reacting badly to this news.

            Instead he found himself slammed up against the cold stone wall of the bedchamber, staring into the reddening face of the older man who'd employed him for the last three years. "And you think I'll agree to _that_?" he snarled menacingly.

            "Most people," came a cold voice from the doorway, at which both heads turned in surprise, "find that it's best to agree with decrees signed by the King." House leaned against the door frame, posture so deliberately casual that Wilson knew instinctively he was ready to attack if necessary. "Unless you'd like to be the Lord in charge of a sanitation depot in the middle of nowhere."


End file.
